Johnny rolled over in the musty, sagging bed and attempted to piece together the night before. The cramped, dank room he was in was windowless – walls painted a ghastly pink, covered in graffiti with the lingering, vaginal stench of a million Mexican hookers.
He lay naked on an old, spotted mattress, itself reeking of mildew and various indescribable aromas. The bathroom was down the hall. Johnny rose slowly and staggered toward the chipped, porcelain sink next to the bed and took a piss, rinsing the basin with water from the tap. He then splashed water onto his greasy face.
Gravity took over which caused him to slump uncontrollably back onto the bed. He lay there dizzy and aching - head pounded as he stared at the naked lightbulb dangling from a wire protruding out of a hole cut in the plaster of the ceiling. Directly above his face, there was a dark, orange spot in the plaster.
That’s rat piss, he thought, not water damage. Rats always piss in the same spot. Humans don’t - unsanitary fucks...
Johnny’s mind throbbed with the kaleidoscope of a million images from the previous evening: He was naked, on his knees in a submissive crouch; hands on his knees. Towering above him stood a 40 year-old Hispanic ex-con who recently been released from the border patrol after being detained for two days in the States. Or so he claimed.
Johnny met him in the Plaza. Said he could get a good score on coke. His torso was a mass of tattoos and scars. The ex-con was of medium height and beefy/muscular. After hours of doing dope, through fucked up eyelids, Johnny saw the ex-con standing above him, naked...no not quite...his khaki pants were dropped at his ankles and the stained wife-beater was pulled up over his thick neck. A gold necklace of the Virgin of Guadalupe was the only color across the wall of brown chest. With a muscular left hand, the brutish ex-con held Johnny painfully by the hair and with his right hand, he rapidly masturbated himself.
Johnny’s eyes were not focused on the thick, brown penis, he was more entranced on watching the huge testicles bounce briskly as the brute jerked off. Johnny glanced up at the bulldog face. The grimace. The thick moustache. The slicked-back, black hair.
“Don’t you fucking look at me!” He snarled and whack! Slapped Johnny across the face with an open palm.
Johnny nearly fell over, but the ex-con roughly grabbed him by the hair. Johnny could feel a trickle of blood ooze from his nostril, down across the lips. The ex-con tightened the grip on Johnny hair. Johnny winced. It hurt.
The ex-con rose onto the tips of his toes and grunted similar to some kind of beast. Johnny could feel the hot licks of the man’s semen as it splashed across his face. The ex-con then jabbed his thick, short penis into Johnny’s mouth and rammed it in deep, pushing down the back of Johnny’s head. Johnny gagged - he couldn’t breathe. Tears swelled in his eyes. He felt as if he was going to throw up.
“Take it, you fucking faggot!” The ex-con growled through gold-capped teeth. “Clean that dick!”
He roughly shoved Johnny down onto the cold, dusty, concrete floor. The brute wiped his penis with a ragged towel and tossed it onto Johnny’s semen and blood splattered face.
Dressing, the ex-con grumbled as he walked out with his back to Johnny, “You’re shit’s on the table, joto!”
Slam! The ex-con was gone and Johnny was alone. He could taste semen and blood on his lips. He looked up through a haze to see the junk and pesos the asshole had left on the nightstand.
Man, the things I do for this shit.